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did show, until it became subject to the soldiers, a singular and admirable moderation, in such times scarcely to be hoped, and most worthy to be an example to all that shall come after. But on this argument I have said enough, and I will therefore only pray to Almighty God that those who shall, in future times, stand forth in defence of our liberties, as well civil as religious, may adorn the good cause by mercy, prudence, and soberness, to the glory of his name and the happiness and honour of the English people."

And so ended that discourse; and not long after we were set on shore again at the Temple-gardens, and there parted company: and the same evening I took notes of what had been said, which I have here more fully set down, from regard both to the fame of the men, and the importance of the subject-matter.

T. M.

SONGS OF THE CIVIL WAR.

Here warlike coblers railed from tops of casks
At lords and love-locks, monarchy and masques.-
There many a graceless page blaspheming reel'd,
From his dear cards and bumpers, to the field:
The famished rooks, impatient of delay,

Gnaw their cogg'd dice and curse the lingering prey:
His sad Andromache, with fruitless care,
Paints her wan lips and braids her borrowed hair:
For Church and King he quits his favourite arts,
Forsakes his Knaves, forsakes his Queen of Hearts:
For Church and King he burns to stain with gore
His doublet, stained with nought but sack before.
From a MS. Poem.

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Fling the fascines ;-tear up the spikes ;
And forward, one and all.

Down, down with all their train-band pikes,
Down with their mud-built wall.

Quarter?-Foul fall your whining noise,
Ye recreant spawn of fraud !

No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys.
No quarter! Think on Laud.
What ho! The craven slaves retire.
On! Trample them to mud,

No quarter!-Charge.-No quarter!-Fire.
No quarter!-Blood!-Blood!-Blood!

Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch, Brave lads, to tell us where,

Sure London's sons be passing rich,

Her daughters wondrous fair:

And let that dastard be the theme
Of many a board's derision,

Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream
Of any sweet Precisian.

Their lean divines, of solemn brow,

Sworn foes to throne and steeple,

From an unwonted pulpit now

Shall edify the people :

Till the tir'd hangman, in despair,

Shall curse his blunted shears,

And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear,
Around their leathern ears.

We'll hang, above his own Guildhall,
The city's grave Recorder,
And on the den of thieves we'll fall,
Though Pym should speak to order.
In vain the lank-haired gang shall try
To cheat our martial law;

In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry
That strangers must withdraw.

Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair,
We'll build a glorious pyre,

And tons of rebel parchment there

Shall crackle in the fire.

With them shall perish, cheek by jowl,

Petition, psalm, and libel,

The Colonel's canting muster-roll,

The Chaplain's dog-ear'd bible.

We'll tread a measure round the blaze
Where England's pest expires,
And lead along the dance's maze

The beauties of the friars:

Then smiles in every face shall shine,

And joy in every soul.

Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine,
And crown the largest bowl.

And as with nod and laugh ye sip
The goblet's rich carnation,
Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip

The wink of invitation;

Drink to those names,-those glorious names,

Those names no time shall sever,

Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames,
Our Church and King for ever!

T. M.

II. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-
NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJeant in Ireton's REGIMENT.

OH! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine;
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General rode along us to form us for the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout,
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line!
For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes :-close
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

your

ranks:

They are here:-they rush on.-We are broken-we are gone :-
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon hath a wound :-the centre hath given ground :-
Hark! hark!-What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys.
Bear up another minute. Brave Oliver is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple-Bar.
And he he turns, he flies,-shame to those cruel eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

Ho! comrades, scour the plain: and ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your guest sccure ;

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools, your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,
When ye kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades ;

Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down, with the mitre and the crown,
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;
There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham's Stalls:
The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the Kings of earth in fear, shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

T. M.

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THIS is the title of a work which is to be completed in Three Volumes, at One Shilling each. It is not our intention to give any analysis of a book which is itself an analysis, but first to call attention to the principles upon which books of this class claim a respect beyond what is usually given by those who sneer at attempts to make the higher literature familiar to all. To do this it will be sufficient to quote Mr. Craik's Introduction :

"Bacon has himself said, that, although some books may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others, that should be only in the less important arguments and the meaner sort of books; 'else,' he adds, 'distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things.' This is in his essay entitled Of Studies;' and undoubtedly the works of a great writer can only be properly studied in their original form.

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"But abridgments, compendiums, analyses, even of the works of the greatest writers, may still serve important purposes. If properly executed, even the student of the original works may find them of use both as guides and as remembrancers. A good compendium should be at least the best index and synopsis. The more extensive the original book, or books, the more is such a compendious analysis wanted, not to supersede or be a substitute for the original, but to accompany it as an introduction and instrument of ready reference. It is like a map of a country through which one has travelled, or is about to travel; or rather it is like what is called the key map prefixed to a voluminous atlas, by which all the other maps are brought together into one view, and their consultation facilitated.

"To the generality of readers, again, a comprehensive survey in small compass of an extensive and various mass of writings is calculated to be more than such a mere convenient table of contents or ground-plan. In the same Essay Bacon has said, Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed No. 31. [KNIGHT'S PENNY MAGAZINE.]

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